


Stoned Olive Branch

by valantha



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s02e06 Dead Man Walking, Episode: s02e07 The Patriot Act, Extended Scene, Gen, Non-Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2017-12-31 23:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valantha/pseuds/valantha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rachel adjusts the lethal injection cocktail to save her captor. As a peace offering; as a plea for forgiveness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stoned Olive Branch

**Author's Note:**

> Some dialogue/events taken from 1.04, 1.20, 2.06, and 2.07 written by Anne Cofell Saunders, Eric Kripke, Paul Grellong, Trey Callaway, and Matt Pitts.

Rachel watched as Dad injected the drugs into Monroe’s median cubital vein. Watched as he stuttered, gasping for breath, only to have his diaphragm fail him, then his heart.

Rachel watched her son’s murderer gasp for the last time before stilling.

 _What kind of a mother are you?_ Memory-Monroe asked. Rachel’s scars keened just like they had that afternoon – but they hadn’t been scars yet, they were still fresh from Strausser’s blades. Memory-Monroe leaned in close, _you abandoned your children, you left them alone with Ben. Did it hurt, or are you just too cold of a bitch to feel anything?_ Murmuring into her ear, _Let’s see how tough you are when we start ripping out Danny’s molars,_ each exhalation moving her bangs. Memory-Monroe continued, _maybe you don’t even care about your kids,_ stroking her hair, fondling it like it was his – like **she** was his.

She now knew what kind of mother she was. She was going to rejoice in her son’s murderer’s last breath at the same time wondering if she had calculated the dosage correctly to save Monroe as a peace offering to her daughter.

She had left Nora to bleed out, maybe Charlie was right; maybe her arterial hemorrhaging could have been stopped. But Rachel didn’t stay, didn’t listen. _Your daughter is standing right in front of you, and I’m asking for your help._ There was power to be turned on, mistakes to be righted, Danny’s death to be avenged, and Dan Jenkins’ death – with whom she had swapped Terrible Twos stories and potty training tips – to be made worthwhile.

 _If_ she calculated the dosage correctly, maybe Charlie would forgive her for doing what she had to do. Maybe. And she didn’t know if she had gotten it right. Too little and he wouldn’t look dead for long enough, too much and his liver wouldn’t be able to metabolize it fast enough and he’d stay dead. Her father’s supply of Pancuronium was fifteen years old, and she had to guess Monroe’s weight. He had looked a bit leaner than he had been as President.

Dad closed Monroe’s eyes, checked his pulse, and declared him dead. The audience filed out. Rachel stayed with Dad until Monroe’s body was unceremoniously dumped off of the gurney into a wheelbarrow and wheeled out of the courtroom.

* * *

Rachel ghosted out of the town gates wearing the slightly dazed look she had been cultivating – glad that the Rangers were here and the Patriots weren’t manning the gates.

Rachel sat down in a thicket off the road, and listened for the hearse-wagon. Once it passed her hidey-hole she waited and then followed it by the light of the waxing moon. They stopped a ways out of town and tossed the flimsy coffin into a pre-dug grave.

Once she knew the location, Rachel walked to Sara Wilkerson’s abandoned house, and grabbed a shovel. After a long enough interval, Rachel walked back to the gravesite and began digging up Monroe. No matter what she found in that hole, today was a success - or so she told herself.

After two hours of hard work – made substantially easier by the loosely packed soil – she had uncovered the coffin. She scraped the last bit of dirt off of the lid before destroying the hinges and using the shovel as a lever to rip the lid off. Monroe blinked stupidly up at her, his fingers wiggling slightly, helplessly. She hadn’t miscalculated the dosage.

“Don’t try to move,” Rachel cautioned before heaving Monroe up out of the coffin and propping him on the side of the grave. He stunk; he had clearly lost control of _that_ sphincter. After a couple of tries, Rachel lugged/rolled Monroe out of the grave, and then dumped him off to the side, on his side in case he vomited. She returned the coffin’s battered lid to its place and began filling in the grave.

Filling in the grave was much faster than digging it out, and Rachel was manhandling Monroe onto the Wilkerson couch before dawn. She didn’t speak again, knowing that the silence and anticipation would be torturous for Bass, but he wasn’t dead, and she needed to get her kicks somehow.  

Rachel washed the grave-dirt off of herself in the frigid waters of the Wilkerson hand pump before walking into town, mind focused on formulating a plan of attack.

* * *

The Rangers were still there; the gate was still open. Rachel walked in with a slightly dazed look upon her face. Sometimes it was handy to be known as the town crazy.

Rachel was pretty sure she knew where Miles would be, and correctly found him propped against the alley behind the bar. Rachel heaved up her second foul-smelling former captor of the day, and led him to his nearby apartment. Miles smelled more like the sweet ketone-y smell of whiskey-sweat and the unmistakable odor of urine than the stench of feces Monroe gave off.

Rachel grabbed Miles’ spare key from on top of his lintel – he was so unoriginal – and let them into his apartment. She led him to his bed and he slumped down onto his unmade, rumpled bed, pulling the autumn-colored knit bedspread over his head. Rachel dug through his chest, and tossed a clean shirt and a washcloth at him.

Miles pulled his head out of his nest, and looked at the two pieces of cloth like they done him wrong.

“Fine, don’t change your shirt, but you should at least wash your face,” Rachel said.

“Why?” Miles asked, voice muffled by blankey.

Rachel replied, “’cause Bass shat himself, and I’m not cleaning it up,” unspoken between them: I saved your monstrous friend, and no, you’re not out of the doghouse yet.

Miles pulled his head out of the nest again, “What?”

“Bass shat himself, and I’m not cleaning it up,” Rachel repeated, “Clean yourself up, and we’ll stop by Dad’s to pick up some supplies and Charlie if she’s there.”

Miles comically scrambled up, and poured a bit of water onto the washcloth before rubbing his face down.

Rachel sat on his chest and focused on what she’d tell Charlie, whether it would work.

“Come on!” a fresh-faced, no longer hung-over Miles intoned from the doorway. It was remarkable what a bit of hope could do to a person.

Rachel quietly followed an ebullient Miles through the town – he _was_ practically skipping – though few people would be able to tell. The easy part was over.

Charlie was eating breakfast in Dad’s sunlit breakfast room, and Miles nodded at Dad – even more chillingly polite than their normal two-alpha-males-during-a-truce behavior – before softly murmuring something into Charlie’s ear. Rachel suppressed a sigh. Maybe it _was_ better that he told her. They couldn’t fight if they didn’t talk.

Rachel filled two large bottles with water and stuffed them – and a burlap sack of apples – into her backpack.

The three of them left Dad’s house, and the town, the very image of familial tranquility.

* * *

To distract herself from what-ifs - what if Charlie didn't forgive her, what if Charlie never forgave her, what if she had saved that sorry excuse of a man only to have him hurt her family again - Rachel went through the list of square numbers, smiling at herself once she got to 1024, which was 32 squared, or a kilobyte.

Luckily, Sara Wilkerson’s house wasn’t too far from town, and Rachel hadn’t calculated 42 squared by the time they arrived.

She led them to the living room, and Miles did a double take at Bass’ still form.

“Bass?” he asked, incredulous, relief flooding his face when Monroe’s head moved and eyes fluttered open.

Rachel turned to unpack the supplies Monroe would need while Miles and Monroe talked.

As she pulled out one of the water bottles, Charlie asked, “How much did you give him?”

Rachel simplified, commanding herself not to turn around, “Enough barbiturates to drop a horse. Make him look dead.”

Rachel unpacked the sack of apples as the two boys bonded – Bass was clearly stoned out of his gourd.

Miles turned back to her and asked, “How long ‘til he’s 100%?”

Rachel simplified – he didn’t need to know how the drugs were stored in adipose tissue and that would take a while for the liver to metabolize it all – “A couple of days.”

Charlie asked, “Why’d you do it?”

Rachel turned to face her daughter, to explain, “ ‘cause we needed him.”

Charlie didn’t blink, Rachel continued, an impossible-to-suppress almost-hopeful lilt to her voice “And you asked me to.”

She studied her daughter’s face – was there any sign on that face of hers that she acknowledged this peace offering? Acknowledged what it meant for her to save her captor (and assaulter) for all of those years, Ben’s killer, Danny’s killer? _Nope, not a blink._

The familiar feeling of powerlessness gripped her, and she turned back to her pack, pulling out a second water bottle. An echoing boom rolled over the Texan plains, and Rachel turned to the window – smoke billowed from Willoughby. Adrenaline shot through her veins, and despite the bone-deep exhaustion and ache from the night’s work, and the even deeper, more painful hollow throb in her heart, she focused on the needs of the now, running out of the house, into town. 


End file.
